All the richer members of the House of Arundel--the City Arundels--were present. One of them--chief partner in a leading firm of accountants--afterwards computed, for the greater increase of the family glory, how many hundreds of thousands of pounds were gathered together at one moment beneath that sacred roof. He counted the members, and made that little addition, during the performance of the ceremony. Those of the Austins who were not disgracefully poor--there are some branches of the family, I believe, pretty low down--were also present. And the company went to Pembridge Square after the service, gazed admiringly at the wedding presents, and drank the health of the bride and bridegroom, and gathered with cousinly curiosity round the returned Prodigal. But they knew nothing--mind you--of his connection with Camberwell. And nothing about his supposed complicity in the Edmund Gray business. There had been, happily, no scandal. Among the company in the church was Mr. Dering. He stood tall and erect, his coat buttoned, his face keen and hard, the family lawyer stamped by nature and long custom. Presently, when the service was about half way through, a change came over him. His face relaxed: the lines curved just a little laterally, the austerity vanished, his eyes brightened. He took off his gloves furtively and opened his coat. He was Edmund Gray. In that capacity he afterwards drank to the bride and wished her happiness. And he walked all the way from Pembridge Square to South Square, Gray's Inn. * * * * * I see in the future an old man growing feeble: he leans upon the arm of a girl whom he calls his Scholar, his disciple, and his child. His face is serene: he is perfectly happy: the Advent of that Kingdom whose glories he preaches is very nigh at hand. He lives in the house of his disciple: he has forgotten the very existence of his lawyer: he goes no more to Lincoln's Inn: always he is lying, night and day, before that miracle of carven work in Ivory. There he watches--it is his Vision--the long procession of those who work and sing at their work and are happy, work they ever so hard, because they work each for all and all for each. And there is no more sorrow or crying and no more pain. What hath the Gate of Horn--through which is allowed nothing but what is true--bitterly true--absolutely true--nakedly, coldly, shiveringly true--to show in comparison with this? A crowd trampling upon each other: men who enslave and rob each other: men and women and children lying in misery--men and women and children starving.--Let us fly, my brothers--let us swiftly fly--let us hasten--to the Gate of Ivory. _OPINIONS OF THE PRESS_ ON THE IVORY GATE. By WALTER BESANT.